While not in the running for the Darwin Award, I did make my son scared by his genetic heritage this past weekend. My friend, Patrick, has lent me his car while my van remains in a coma. Last Thursday night I drove home from across town, a trip of about 10 miles, with no particular problem. The next morning I got in the car to head to work, turned the key…….and the car didn’t start.
Apparently cars come to me to die!
I called my neighborhood mechanic but he was unavailable until Saturday. I let the depression wash over me and decided to take the day off from work. While he was nervous about the news, my friend Patrick seemed to take this latest chapter in stride.
My mechanic showed up just after lunch on Saturday and immediately went about tinkering with the engine to diagnose the problem. A persistent noise from the back of the car and the engine not turning over narrowed the search to the fuel pump. Always trying to save me a dollar or two, my mechanic crawled under the car and started hitting the pump with a hammer hoping to dislodge any blockage.
“Hey!” he bellowed, “this tank sounds awfully HOLLOW!”
My mind replayed the ride home the night before. It was the day before payday, so I had no money to fill the gas tank. The needle sat at 1/8th of a tank; a safe cushion as I had previously run the tank on almost fumes with an accompanying “idiot light”. My ride home the night before had been devoid of any fuel problems.
“Rock the car and let me hear how much gas is in there!”
I leaned on the bumper and rocked the car up and down a few times until he slid out from underneath, rose to his feet and gave me a look as if he were talking to a 5 year old, “Humor me and let’s go get a couple of dollar worth of gas.”
Sure enough, we returned, emptied the gas can, turned the key and heard the car jump to life. My self-esteem sank as the engine grew louder. At least it had saved me a major repair and only cost me a 12 pack of Michelob.
When I told my son, he just sighed and said, “Dad!” with a mix on astonishment and terror that he was in the same gene pool as his Mensa reject of a father.
3 comments:
Not only makes ya go "hmmmm....!" but also makes ya go "I wonder if the van has any gas in it?!?!"
Just plain sad.
Make sure you tell this story on your next date so she'll know what an incredibly prepared guy you are.
Next time write a postdated check.
Hello All,
I must identify myself as the "Patrick" who has lent Jack his vehicle. I must say that I am quite concerned that now the "village Idiot' T-Shirt our Jack normally likes to wear was actually a prize awarded to him for something most grandeur! I assure you that I was more nervous than he was and I was the first to coin asking him if his van had gas when we had our usual lunch time at work. I wish I can take credit for doing so on this blog-site but I wouldn't do that to him while he is still driving my car. Since now someone else has made it public I can just laugh in silence! We love you Jack and I just wanted to say Please! don't let my gastank get to 1/8th again, it may not be enough to turn over the engine when you wake up in the morning! Love ya'!
P.
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